If the night is long (here's my lullaby)
by CrashCourse1.0
Summary: Dick comes out of their nightly patrol a little worse for wear, and Bruce just needs him to rest and get well. But his three other sons have other plans.


"No… no… Mom… Da… Dad…"

The man removed the damp cloth over the boy's burning forehead, pressing a hand firmly but gently to his bandaged chest to prevent the child from moving too much. He dropped the limp cloth into a basin of cool water, eyes never leaving the sleeping boy. Even in his dreams, the kid was nothing if not restless and no matter how the man rearranged the blankets around him, the boy slept fitfully.

Outside, a storm was brewing. The sky was dark and ominous and thick heavy clouds were rolling into view over the expansive fields of the estate.

"No…" a tear slid out from the corner of Dick's tightly shut eyes as he squirmed, lost in his dreams.

It was his injuries, the fear gas that had yet to wash out from his system and his raging fever that was bringing on the night terrors. Bruce knew, he knew but he could do nothing to help. He was utterly lost in this situation.

He reached out and smoothed the boy's unruly, slightly damp locks out of his forehead so he could replace the towel on the sick child's face. His temperature high and the stress wasn't helping. Alfred had already given him the maximum dose of ibuprofen that a child of his age could handle through an intravenous drip and couldn't risk giving him anymore, especially in his weakened state. Also, the cocktail of fear-inducing chemicals in his blood could also probably mix up with additional fever medications and there'd be trouble.

Going to the hospital was also not an option; the boy's injuries and medical records would raise the attention of the doctors, questions would be asked and the Children Protection Services would come knocking on the Manor's door. Dick, and maybe even the rest, would then be taken away and carted to some distant orphanage or home, where they would never meet again. Nobody wanted that.

Bruce took the limp hand of his child and tried not to squeeze it too tightly. His forearms were littered with contusions and his bruised ribs were wrapped tightly in bandages; his hands were so cold, but his torso itself was radiating heat, burning from illness. The boy stirred fretfully at his touch, eyes darting about under his pale eyelids. Dick was suffering, and there he was, whole and well, but unable to help, unable to aid the situation. They were so close, and yet his son was so far from him, lost in his own mind, hindered by his weakened vessel of a body, all alone.

Suddenly, there was a gentle knock on the bedroom door. He had been so distracted he hadn't noticed any footsteps outside the door.

"Enter."

The door inched open slightly and the butler looked in, face slightly darkened by shadows and a sombre expression.

"Master Bruce."

"Alfred," Dick shifted unconsciously at rumble of his voice and he hastened to drop it to a whisper, "What is it?"

"Well—" the older man was cut off by an imploring half-shout that came from behind him.

"Move aside, Pennyworth."

"Yeah, Alf, let us through."

"Dad? Are you there?"

The door widened a little more and Alfred disappeared momentarily from view to allow three shadows to enter. Bruce stood up and drew himself to full height, so that the prone body of the sleeping teen was hidden from sight.

The first one stepped into the room, quietly. Bruce could see his keen eyes darting fervently about as he clung on his limp cat plush. The next peeped timidly past the door and the last one just pushed past his younger brothers and strut up, a self-assured expression on his face. Bruce glared, but at the same time, admired his brashness.

"Bruce." He stood a good metre away from the man, staring him full in the eye.

The youngest boy scowled at his brother's strict posture and begrudgingly fell into line beside him, imitating his confident fashion and tone.

"Father." The last boy trailing behind hesitantly walked over and joined the ranks, shifting his weight from foot to foot and searching his father's stern expression. He looked guilty, but defiant, like his brothers.

Finally, Bruce sighed, looking from face to face in turn, "Jason, Tim, Damian. What are you boys doing up? It's 3am."

When the children didn't answer, he turned to Alfred "Why are they not asleep? This is way past their 10pm bedtime."

The butler bristled slightly at the subtle accusation, but retained his dignified demeanour. "If I may, sir, they appeared to be fast asleep moments ago, but when I returned to their rooms from attending to you and Master Richard, I found Masters Damian and Timothy's ones empty. They had rendezvoused in Master Jason's room, in an attempt to plan an 'ambush' on the two of you."

"..." Bruce glanced back at the kids, only to see all their gazes averted, even Jason's.

"Is this true?"

They didn't answer. Tim began to fiddle with a corner of his pajama shirt and Damian grunted and swung the soft toy he had in his tiny hands at Jason, hitting him.

"Ow! What?!"

The feisty 5 year-old clicked his tongue in irritation.

"Answer him, Todd."

The older boy rolled his eyes, "Yeah, we were planning an ambush."

"Why?"

"Your turn, Dami." Jason shot back.

The child ground out through gritted teeth, "Don't call me that."

Jason grinned and replied glibly, "Why not? Dami."

"Guys, don't fight—" poor Tim intersected weakly.

They ignored him.

"Stop it!"

"Why? Why should I, Dami? Dicky calls you that all the time, Dami, why can't I?"

"Todd, one more time and I swear, I'll-"

"You'll what? Gut me with your safety scissors? Strangle me like you strangle that mangy old bag of decaying cotton—"

Damian growled and hugged his plush tighter, "Shadow is not a mangy— whatever! He's a cat."

"Mangy kid's toy."

"I said, Shadow is not a-"

"Bruce?" A soft hoarse voice came from behind the said man. Damian and Jason stopped short, heads snapping around while Tim just stared, eyes as round as saucers.

Bruce threw the three a withering look and sat back down in his chair beside Dick. The boy was awake; his usually brilliant blue eyes were half-open, dulled and entirely bloodshot from crying and illness. His face was still pale and wan, but at least he was free of that terrible nightmare.

"Dick," he dropped down by the bed again, a hand automatically reaching out to caress the boy's sleep-worn black hair, "How're you feeling?"

The younger took a shaky breath and winced.

"Cold, sore and nauseous. What happened?"

"Scarecrow sprung you when we separated to surround him in Crime Alley. He and his lackeys were lying in wait and dosed you with fear gas, but not before beating you up pretty badly."

"Crap. How did we miss him..." Dick mumbled, blinking sluggishly.

Bruce caught the sigh in his chest. "It wasn't supposed to happen. Somehow, the tracker I placed on Scarecrow was discovered and he transferred it to what I believe was a rat. I only realised he got you when I heard you scream."

"Oh..." taking in his son's injuries again, watching him struggle to stay conscious made the guilt he had been staunchly avoiding since he'd found Dick bubble up in a rush.

"... On hindsight," he murmured, feeling his tone waver, "the movements picked up by the tracker were too fast and sharp to be Scarecrow and his group. I should have told you to stall instead of subdue—"

" 'Tis not your fault, you didn't know he has people waiting. And I shouldn't have rushed in without back up..." Dick butt in, and Bruce felt another guilty swoop of relief, after which came a firm wave of determination.

"Either way, he's been treated accordingly, and you're still in one piece. So just focus on getting better now, alright chum?"

"Mm."

"Dick!" The bed-ridden boy startled at the cry and grunted when a small warm body leapt on the bed and collided with him. He grimaced.

"Tim, don't—" Dick shot Bruce a look to shut him up and instead gingerly wrapped his arms around his younger brother.

"Hey now, what's wrong Timbo?" His soft placating tone made Tim's head rise. The kid's eyes were glazed with tears and his lip was quivering.

"Hey, hey... Shh..." Dick winced again when the boy hugged him again, jarring his injuries. Bruce made a low angry sound in his throat.

"Grayson." Damian walked up to the bedside, expression livid and eyes glaring at confused Dick. "What stupid thing was it this time? A mere scarecrow too good for you?"

"Dami—"

"Shut up, I'm not done." The small boy glared, arms akimbo. His toy swung feebly from his tight little fist.

"C'mon... Little D..."

"Master Jason, where are you going?" Everyone except Tim (whose face was still buried in Dick's chest) all looked around to see the 11-year-old trying to push past Alfred.

"I'm gonna get my knives, then I'm going after that Scarecrow— hey!" Bruce pinned his elbows to his sides and bodily lifted him from the door and set him beside fuming Damian at Dick's bedside.

"Get off— Leggo of me, Bruce!" The boy huffed and looked away, glaring at a spot on the wall.

"Jase," sighed Dick, as Tim sat back up on the bed. "It's not worth it, revenge won't do any of us any good—"

"But he hurt you!" All three of them cried, simultaneously.

"Yes, but he's still a very bad guy and you could get hurt. Like I did. Besides, he's behind bars now, right Bruce?"

The man grunted. "I managed to apprehend him and the last I recall, he was in police custody."

Dick looked at his younger brothers, tone gentle, "See boys? Problem solved."

The kids fell silent, Jason still glaring crossing his arms tightly over his chest, Tim lowering his head, determining avoiding all their gazes and Damian glaring at a spot on the wall, tiny hands curled into tight, little fists.

"Guys, c'mon. Don't look at me like that." They shifted a little at Dick's plea and Damian's tense stance faltered. Their resolve was chipping.

"Jay, Dami, Timmy," coaxed Dick. Then his fever-glazed eyes brightened a little and he patted an empty spot on the mattress of his king-sized bed, "Tell you what, since you're so afraid of bad guys coming to hurt me, why don't we all sleep here in my bed? Just like old times."

This caught their attention. Jason tried to look disinterested but Bruce couldn't miss the soft glint that had now entered his electric-blue eyes, and Dami was already shuffling over, pulling a face. The two boys automatically climbed onto the bed and settling down into the sheets.

Bruce grunted. He didn't like this. What if their horsing around made Dick's injuries worse? His fever wasn't contagious, but what if Dick has a really bad dream in the night and unconsciously lashed out at his brothers?

Dick's eyes flew to Bruce and Alfred, eyes glittering. They understood the signal and started move.

"Can we snuggle? We always used to snuggle." Tim suddenly piped. Bruce noted that he left out the part, _'before you started to go out at night with Daddy'_. The kids always used that line when they got angry at Bruce or Dick about their crime-fighting job and the lack of time they all had together.

Damian was one step ahead, already kicking away the covers and squirming next to his eldest brother.

"Hey, no fair! I was here first!" The boy's protest was silenced by a glare from the other party. He fell silent, expression unhappy.

Jason clambered over all of them and dumped himself on the empty half of the king-sized bed, making a clear boundary and turning his back against his three brothers. Silence echoed in the room; only occasional ruffling of shifting sheets was heard.

As he and Alfred packed up, Bruce overheard Damian say in a quiet little voice, "You're really really warm, Gr— Dick."

"Yeah." Whispered Tim, the sheets moved again.

"It's called a fever, you little idiots."

"Hey now. No cussing before bedtime." Dick said, his voice regaining a little its weary edge.

"Who the hell—"

"Jase."

"Fine, who invented that stupid rule?"

Bruce picked up the basin of water from the floor and slipped out, but stalling long enough to hear Dick coax in that infinitely patient manner of his. "Me. Now go to sleep, everyone."

The man turned back to look and saw his eldest son, nestled right in the center of his brothers. He caught him staring gave him a strained but firm smile.

 _Good-night Bruce._

He nodded and left.

Hours later, when the thunderstorm had blown over, Bruce went to check on the children.

Jason had inched over the boundary and was now semi- curled towards Dick, their shoulders touching. Damian was in between the two older ones, one hand maintaining a fierce grip on his plush toy and one arm wrapped protectively around his oldest brother's bandaged arm, hugging the said arm to his chest. Tim was on Dick's left, the closest to the edge of the bed and his head was resting on the eldest's shoulder. The latter held him closer, snaking an arm around his back.

Bruce gave Dick a silent penetrating once-over; some of the color had returned to his cheeks and he seemed to be breathing easier now. Upon pressing a palm to the child's forehead, he discovered that his fever had broken.

Dick stirred and shifted more into his touch. He smiled and smoothed back his hair.

"Good-night Dick." he whispered. "Sweet dreams."

 **A/N: I wrote this on whim because I was in need for some Batboys cuddling. This is tentatively set in the Young Justice Universe.**

 **The title is taken from Lullaby by Leonard Cohen. It's a pretty nice song to fall asleep to.**

 **If you enjoyed the fic, please do leave a review! I'd love to hear what you think of it.**


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